Jaisalmer > Pokaran > Balesar > Jodhpur 110km, 102km, truck

[Originally posted Dec 12, 2014]

I saw the two of them, the goras, or foreigners, sitting at breakfast on the rooftop terrace of the Shahi Guest House in Jodhpur. It was 10:45am, a little late for tourists to be having breakfast. Katy was in a long sleeve flannel shirt and a pair of black and white paisley pants cut off around the calf.  Clayton’s hair was pulled back into a long ponytail.  He was wearing a lemon colored shirt that said ISTANBUL across the front with a picture of a man in a small boat fishing a bicycle out of the sea.  The shirt gave me reason to wonder if the double-cycle parked in the open air lobby of the guesthouse along with all the noise and commotion of the local kids at 11pm last night was their doing.  They looked tired and well rested at the same time, as if, they had a good night sleep but that wasn’t sufficient to rejuvenate their bodies.  Then they spoke.

“Well, yesterday definitely goes down as thee worst day of our trip,” Clayton declared in a half-accusatory half-nonchalant attitude.  He rubbed his eyes, yawned, tried to remove some earwax with his pinky finger and reached for the menu Katy had already looked over.

“Do you really think so?” Katy questioned as she looked up for the first time from her red Amazon Kindle.  She paused for a moment and then added “Yeah, I guess you are right.”

As he looked over the menu, flipping the pages of the badly worn somewhat laminated menu, his face murmured in its expression and his eyes rolled.  “More curry, just what I was hoping for,” he said sarcastically, it was a sarcasm that appeared to have years of experience.

“Keep looking, you might find something you like.” Katy encouraged him, apparently knowing something he didn’t.  I could also tell that she felt bad for him, but I couldn’t tell why.

“Whoa, muesli with curd.  And nutella toast.” He celebrated as he flipped to the last page.  “I guess it’s no Grape Nuts with Winder Dairy, but you know what? This place isn’t half bad.”

“No, not that bad at all, especially since this is the first place we’ve stayed that has a hot shower, with a curtain, a toilet I feel safe sitting on AND toilet paper,” Katy hummed without looking up from her Kindle.

Wow, that’s strange I thought to myself.  Where have these foreigners been?  As their food was delivered their moods brightened and I heard them recount in great detail the, in my honest opinion, pathetic but adventurous course of their travels over the past 24 hours.  I’ve seen a lot of foreigners come through the Shahi Guest House in the last 20 years or so, and well, these two are just a little bit different.

The downward spiral of their trip began a week or so ago, in Varanasi.  Katy first got sick, then Clayton, then a 36 hour train trip, then two days ago a 110 kilometer bike ride from Jaisalmer to Pokaran.  This stretch of events set the stage for the “worst day of their trip” that happened yesterday.

They left their guest house at 11am.  What they were doing all morning, I’m not sure.  But if it were me, and I were riding a bike (of all things) across the desert of Rajasthan I’d get started 4 hours earlier to avoid the heat of midday. At 11am they set off.

But, they set off in the wrong direction.  They had to go back into town to get some money out of an ATM.  Being from India I can only say two things: 1 - why did you leave this for last and 2 - good luck.  As they approached the third, and probably last, ATM in the small town of Pokaran, Katy celebrated that the ATM actually worked, and Clayton said “well it’s about time” and they were anxious to finally be on the road.  A large crowd had gathered (I’m sure everywhere they go us Indians just love staring at their double cycle, I heard it even has 10 gears).  Then, just as the 40 or so onlookers prevented the two goras from leaving Clayton spoke, “Well, I’m sure you are all wondering why I called you all to this meeting?”  It seemed as though Clayton is only able to get through this country one joke or sarcastic remark at a time.  And then they were off.

They joked about the dead camel they saw on the side of the road, just a kilometer from their guesthouse, and they made particular mention of the tearing-ripping-crunching sound as the stray dogs chewed on the camel’s head.  They then argued about their phone not working, Katy reminding Clayton that he is often impatient and Clayton with the look of, well yeah, what do you want me to do about it, and then adding “well, you could use the camera on your phone, had you not broken it.”  It seemed to be a topic they had argued about before, and as quickly they argued they left it alone and moved on with their story.

They then rode 30 kilometers or so until Clayton apparently threw in the towel.  He pulled the bike to the side of the road, got off, and declared “I’m walking.”  And his complaints were legitimate, sort of.  His body was most likely exhausted - sick for the last couple days and not eating any Indian food, he guessed he’d lost a couple pounds in the past week.  He said he had a headache, which could be true.  But then he added some logic of his own: “Where are we going?  Why are we out here?  What the hell am I doing, sick and tired and this damn headache, riding across the desert? 

“We’re going to Rishikesh, like we planned,” Katy answered cautiously, knowing that when Clayton is in a bad mood, Clayton is in a bad mood.

“Well then why didn’t we take the train to Rishikesh?  If we want to go to Rishikesh then why did we take the train to Jaisalmer?”  he asked. 

“What do you mean?  We’re bike touring, this is what we do, we’ve been riding our bike for the past five and a half months, how is today any different? Katy challenged the somewhat obvious nature of Clayton’s complaints.

“Well this is how I see it.  When we were riding across Europe we had a destination - Istanbul.  Every time we got tired, or there were mountains, or whatever else we just kept on going cause we had a goal - arrive in Istanbul.  But now we have no goal, it just feels like we are riding around for the fun of it,” Clayton continued.  “Every time we get on a train, or in a jeep or any other non-cycling mechanism it breaks down your mental fortitude to stay on the bike when things get tough.  If we took a train all the way here, why don’t we just take a train back?  Let me put it this way, let’s say you are in the LOTOJA and you are 130 miles into the race, you get sick, your mind starts to wander, you have some riding pain, what do you do?  You finish the race.  But now let’s say they remove the finish line, there is no race, do you ride the next 70 miles?  Of course not, you throw in the towel, especially if you feel awful.”

Clayton’s argument had some logic behind it.  Their 6,000+ kilometers across Europe were relatively easy - never sick, good food, nice people and a large finish line at the end of 4 months of cycling.  But now things were different, sick in India, no set destination, people who Clayton claims are the “friendliest most obnoxious people on Earth - depending on what mood you are in” and I could see the reason behind his argument.

Katy was quiet for a moment, it seemed she wasn’t disagreeing with him, but didn’t have an answer for the problem.  Finally, after walking for 100 meters or so down the road she replied, “So what do you want to do?”

And without hesitation Clayton answered “All I want . . . is to sit in my basement . . . where it is quiet and have a large bowl of Grape Nuts with cold Winder Dairy milk . . . and do nothing.”

Were this the extent of their day, I’d be the first to say they hit a low point.  But it continues.  With this mindset, and no apparent solution, they continued to walk down the highway.  Katy pushed the bike, about 15 meters ahead of Clayton, as they walked down the highway, Clayton stopping momentarily to cough and stare at the camels, goats and cows.  Clayton finally caught up and the two resumed conversation.

“Maybe we should go somewhere for Christmas,” Clayton said.

“Yeah, like where.”

“I don’t know, Switzerland, the South of France, Australia, Italy.” Clayton tossed out a handful of suggestions.  “Where do you want to go?”

“Utah, my aunt in Portland, see our families. We could go to Jackson Hole and stay at my cabin,” Katy answered, in what seemed to be a knee jerk response.

“Sorry, but I’m not going back to the States for Christmas,” Clayton answered.

And then the conversation died and they continued walking.  After a while, I suppose they realized they’d never reach their destination on foot, and so they climbed on their bike and continued to ride through the desert.  Thirty kilometers or so later they were back off the bike and walking.  Their argument continued.

“Where is this place of yours?” Clayton demanded.

“The map says it is in 25 kilometers.” Katy quickly answered.

“I don’t think I can go another 25 kilometers.  I feel terrible, let’s just stop at the next guesthouse we see.  What are we racing through this desert for anyways, we’ve got nowhere to be.”  Clayton stated pretty matter of factly.

“But what about our reservation at the Desert Haveli? I called and made a reservation.”  Katy seemed pretty set on her reservation but it didn’t seem like Clayton really cared.  Clayton argued that since we didn’t leave a credit card number they could just blow off the reservation, but then Katy started getting a bit emotional, and with tears in her eyes yelled, “But that’s the one thing I wanted to do out here, stay in a nice place out in the desert.”

“Why do you always have to get so emotional?  If you want to stay there, that’s fine, but you don’t have to cry about it.”

And so they got back on their bike, this time Clayton really not looking so great, and continued the 25 or so kilometers to the Desert Haveli.  They passed many other guesthouses, some even looked really nice - at one point they passed Manvar Haveli, a very nice resort where an elderly gentleman complete in white robes and orange turban motioned for them to stop - but stubborn as these two are, they continued. Clayton dared not say a word because Katy was set on “her” guesthouse and “her” reservation.

Finally they arrived at the Desert Haveli, sun starting to set and Clayton collapsed to the ground (the resort happened to have grass) as Katy went in to look the place over.  A moment later Katy came back out, “This place is gross, and expensive, we can’t stay here.”  Clayton rolled his eyes and said, “Okay, well what do you want to do?”  “I guess we should keep on going.”  Rather reluctantly they climbed back on the bike.  When they reached the road Clayton stopped and asked “What way?”  It is in this manner (making Katy make the decision) that if things turned from bad to worse Clayton could lay the blame on Katy for choosing what to do.  Katy suggested going backwards to Manvar Haveli, but that was half an hour or so in the wrong direction and Clayton refused.  “I’m not going backwards.”  And so they continued down the road.

After about 15 minutes they came upon Manowar Resort and quickly pulled off the road and went into the outdoor courtyard area.  A friendly Indian greeted them, offered them chairs (there was only one table and four chairs in a courtyard that could easily seat a hundred people) and asked if they wanted some tea.  Clayton declined, first asking if they could see a room.  Oh yes, yes, was the response.  Minutes passed until Clayton asked again to see a room.  Finally with some pushing Clayton convinced someone to show them a room, all the while Katy tried to get online to send an email home.  Clayton was led outside of the courtyard around the side to a rusty, old shed.  A gentleman yanked on the door until it finally opened and said, “Here is nice, you like?”

“Oh no, I don’t think so.”  Clayton laughed.  And knowing tourists, I wasn’t surprised.  An Indian might be willing to sleep anywhere, but the old tool shed, covered in dirt, with broken stuff everywhere, no lights, rodents and half of a bed is somewhere that foreigners never agree to sleep, even if they can choose their own price.  They got back on their bike and were just about to leave when the owner of the place ran across the road.  “Next town is 20 kilometers, they have hotel there.”

And so the journey continued.  Clayton wishing that they had called it quits a couple hours ago, Katy wishing the Desert Haveli was cleaner and now agreeing (in her mind) that she should have just stopped back at one of those other places.

The twenty kilometers came and went.  The sun set, the air was nice and cool, the scenery beautiful.  India is great in the late evening in the winter.  But then darkness came and they entered the small town of Balesar in the dark.  The lights from motorbikes, tuk-tuks and overloaded trucks illuminated the dust and pollution ever present in the air.  It’s something you get used to India, it just takes a couple years.

As they pulled to the side of the road, just past the central market area, neither of them were in a good mood.  And with the battle of navigating the crowd of onlookers (the first thing you notice when you get to India is that people stare at you, everywhere you go, they just stare), finding someone who speaks English and finding a place to stay they still had their work cut out for them.

They talked to one guy on a motorcycle, who they followed to another guys shop, who pointed them to his friends place, who they then followed down an alleyway, across a gutter and to a small room at the back left end of a narrow street.  There were no markings to designate the place as a guesthouse, but they were out of options.  Clayton stayed outside with the bike (and in a staring contest with the group of kids who had followed from the main road) as Katy went in to check out the place.  Katy and the man argued a moment over the price of the place, negotiating 600 Rs. instead of 800 Rs. ($10 instead of $13) and then the two carried the bike into the room.  Katy grabbed the passports for the official “checking-in” process.  While Clayton stared at the room in disbelief.

The beds looked as though they offered their last comfortable night sleep about a decade ago, and hadn’t been cleaned in the same number of years.  That sort of filthiness that only overuse and neglect can generate.  At first glance, Clayton quickly began deciding if he’d try sleeping on the floor, standing up or if he dared touching the bed.  The walls were filthy, covered in stains of chewing tobacco spit from countless previous tenants.  A little bathroom immediately elicited the gag reflex.  Truly I’ve never seen a place so vile.  Then Katy returned.

“What the hell.”  Clayton raged.

“What?” Katy answered, although to both of them, the answer was obvious.

“Are you meaning to tell me that I rode my bike, all day, feeling like shit, across that desert only to wind up here.  The grossest place I have ever seen.  I mean honestly, in what world did you come into this place and say, yeah, this is okay.  That Desert Haveli place must have been really bad if you agreed to stay here.  I don’t even want to talk to you.”  Clayton was furious.

Katy crumbled.  She was an emotional wreck and it showed.  She felt bad for making Clayton ride the second half of the day because she refused to give up her reservation and what she hoped would be a nice place. Compared to this place, the Desert Haveli, was a palace. It wasn’t her fault, but she felt responsible.  But that was then and this was now.  Assuming no alternative options, Katy reluctantly agreed to stay.  As the tears began flowing she fought back, “Well where else are we going to stay?  It’s dark, I’m tired and I didn’t see any other places in this town.  At least I got the place down to 600 Rs.”

“Oh wow, you saved us a whole $3.  Congratulations.”  They were doing what married couples do best, argue.  They knew very well what bothered each other, and they let each other have it.  “You are actually going to sleep here, on that bed.  I dare you.”

The bickering continued until Clayton lost it, “Okay, well, enjoy your shit hole, I’m leaving.”  The man who had rented the place was standing just a couple meters away, but the two didn’t care.  They packed up their bike, Katy argued for a moment trying to get the $10 back to which Clayton added, “Just forget it, he’s never going to give it to you,” and the two of them walked back down the small road toward the bustle of traffic. 

“Okay, before we get back out into that mess, what is our plan?  Are we looking for another place or should we just hire a jeep to take us to the next town?”  Clayton asked.

Neither of them answered that question, but the look in their eyes was enough.  They had had enough, and they were off to a larger town.

An hour and a half and three trucks that were all too short later, the two finally secured their bike in the back of a pickup truck, agreed on a much-too-high price (we love foreigner prices, they don’t know how much anything costs in our country) and they were on the road to Jodhpur.  As the truck buzzed down the empty road Clayton stuck his head out the window and stared up at the stars.  It was truly a beautiful night.  Then, Clayton placed his arm around Katy’s shoulder and gave her a half hug. The two exchanged smiles as Katy placed her head on Clayton’s shoulder and just like that, the anger and frustration of a terrible day on the road melted away as hopes of a warm shower and clean bed filled their tired, confused minds.

The Thar Desert, Rajsthan. It really is beautiful.

The Shahi Guest House, Jodhpur. A bright light at the end of a dark, noisy tunnel.

Temple Artwork - been fueling India's population growth for thousands of years.